The Scars of Utopia
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: [REWRITE IN PROGRESS] Camille Adler, a secretary at Fontaine Futuristics, feels trapped in the city of opportunity. When the chance comes to move onto bigger and better things, she takes it; she soon realizes, however, that living out her Rapture dream comes at a heavy price. About halfway through this became a collaborative piece with LetsSingtheDoomSong.
1. I

**_A/N: _**_Ahoy ahoy! I've decided to re-write this fic. Again. But I'm pretty serious about it this time and I promise it will be the last time and I PROMISE then I will start working on the sequel. _

_I just want to thank everyone who has followed this from the very beginning. The encouragement and feedback has been overwhelming and wonderful. I hope old fans come back, and new ones decide to give Camille a chance._

* * *

><p><strong>1955<strong>

Camille Adler swiped her Fontaine Futuristics I.D. tag through the reader, but nothing happened. She tried again and, again, nothing happened. The security guard watching from within his glassed-in booth rolled his eyes. "Lemme see the picture," he drawled.

"Sorry," she mumbled, holding it up for him. "Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't."

"Yeah, I know, Miss Adler. We been doin' this dance for a coupla weeks now. Get a new one from personnel."

"I will, Vernon." She flashed him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."

He simply waved her through the barricade.

Camille looked down at her I.D. tag. The plastic was beginning to wear at the edges. In her photograph, she looked so startled; they had told her not to smile. She sighed, clipped the tag to the front of her blouse, and ascended the stairs to the Finance Department. A furious flurry of typewriters greeted her. There were at least half a dozen secretaries seated at their desks, which were lined up in neat rows in the centre of the main floor. It was laid out such that clerks and accountants could easily make the short walk from their offices, dump dictation tapes, reports to be typed, correspondence to be delivered to the other departments, _anything_, on the desks for the girls to deal with.

"You're late, Adler," the secretarial manager, Doris, said with a disapproving cluck of her tongue.

"I'm sorry," Camille said, scrambling for her desk towards the back of the row. "My I.D. tag wasn't working downstairs. I think the strip's been demagnetized."

Doris waved the excuse away. "Travers wants to see you. He said you're to pack up your things and meet him on the second floor."

Camille, half-way out of her coat, froze. "Oh?" she said slowly. "Um, okay…"

"_Now_. It's urgent." Doris set a cardboard box on the desk. "You're being transferred." And with that, she walked away.

Nodding furiously, Camille quickly began to clear her desk. Typewriter, notepad, a clutch of pens in an old coffee mug, and a small desk calendar. She emptied her drawers of half a pack of Nico Time cigarettes and a spare pair of stockings. It all went into the box and then she stood, shrugged back into her coat, and walked down the row of desks. She could feel the curious eyes of each secretary on her.

She found Travers was pacing near the foot of the stairs. "Camille Adler?" he asked. He was an executive from personnel, so why he was bothering with her transfer and hadn't given it to one of the other office managers, she didn't know. She didn't dare question him, though.

"Yes," she answered. "Doris told me you wanted to see me, Mr. Travers."

"Come on," he said. As he raced along, with Camille trotting to keep up with him, he added, "I suppose you heard that Frank Fontaine's secretary got the boot the other day, hmm?"

Camille nodded, then said, "Yes. I mean, I think I heard something about it…" In fact, she remembered the scene quite well, having watched from the staircase railing with all the other office employees: Fontaine's secretary, screaming, being led away by two burly security guards. "She was stealing, wasn't she?"

Travers ignored her question. "Fontaine's been without a secretary for a couple of days now and I'm transferring you to him temporarily, until a permanent girl can be found," he said. "The selection process is extensive, as you can imagine."

She nodded, more out of habit than anything else, and was grateful that he was so focused on talking that he didn't look at her and watch the color drain from her face. Suddenly, her legs were weak. She grasped more tightly at the cardboard box, as though it were the only thing keeping her upright.

"Fontaine's business is highly specialized but you will be dealing primarily with the clerical side of things, nothing too big," Travers continued. He halted suddenly and Camille could see that they were mere feet from Fontaine's office. "Take this tag," Travers said in a low voice, "and clip it to your front; otherwise the turret will shoot at you."

Camille's hand trembled as she did as he instructed.

"Don't screw this up, Miss Adler," Travers said, his voice suddenly sharp. "If you do, it's _me _that's gonna get chewed out. You're here for a _week_ at the most. Keep your head down, _don't_ get too curious, just do as he says." He checked his watch. "Fontaine's expecting you in five." And, with that, he walked away.

Camille drew a deep, steadying breath. In the time she'd been with Fontaine Futuristics, Frank Fontaine had gone through at least four secretaries. She was going to be his fifth, temporarily at least. The thought was not comforting. She moved stiffly towards his office. There was a sudden beeping to her left and she started before she realized that the oscillating gun turret had recognized the tag clipped to her front, and had decided to leave her alone.

The desk where she was to sit was small and worn-looking. There was an interoffice communicator on one side and a shining black telephone on the other. She set her box down and began emptying it, neatly arranging everything on the unpolished wood. She shrugged out of her coat, draping it over the back of the rickety chair, and went to her handbag for her compact mirror and lipstick. Her reflection was grey, eyes wide with fear. She applied a fresh lick of red to her lips, brushed an errant curl of blonde hair from her forehead, and snapped the compact shut. From her desk, she took up her notepad and a pen.

She supposed Frank Fontaine was waiting for her inside his office. Smoothing down her skirt, and checking that her I.D. tags were straight, she climbed the narrow set of stairs leading up to his door. Her eyes turned over the large letters hanging overhead: _OFFICE OF FRANK FONTAINE_. She breathed – in, out, in, out – and knocked.

"Come in," came the returning call. She obeyed, opening the door only as much as was necessary, slipping inside, and quickly shutting the door behind her. The interior of his office was intimidating and dark, unlike any other office she had ever been in. Like an awed schoolgirl, she gawked at the high glass ceiling, through which swirling cerulean light streamed, and the walls panelled in dark, expensive wood.

"Ya just gonna stand there, kid?" Fontaine called, and she couldn't tell if his tone was amused or irritated.

"No," she mumbled, and she quickly rushed down the length of his office, willing the embarrassed flush in her cheeks to drain away. When she was at his desk, she quickly extended her hand. "I'm Camille Adler. They transferred me from Finance."

Fontaine, who had been browsing the newspaper, folded it away and looked at her with hard, heavy-lidded eyes. A small smirk wrinkled the corner of his mouth as he reached across the desk and clasped her hand in his. "Frank Fontaine," he drawled, unnecessarily – and he knew it was unnecessary from the way she smiled, awkwardly, and quickly drew her hand back.

"Your office is lovely," she remarked slowly, her eyes lingering on the enormous stuffed bear rearing behind his desk. Its mouth was open in a fierce, silent roar, paws raised, long, curved claws extended. "Very… lavish."

Fontaine laughed, though his eyes never left her. He took in her perfect posture, the notepad clasped expectantly in one hand, the general air of professionalism beyond her years. No doubt she'd had the shit scared out of her by personnel. He stood and moved to the wet bar, laden with dozens and dozens of bottles, and poured himself a drink. He downed half of it before saying, "So. Ya said you came from Finance, is that right?"

"Yes, Mr. Fontaine."

"And how d'ya like all those bean counters up there?"

She rolled her shoulder in a small shrug. "It's alright," she said slowly.

He took another swig, nodded, and moved back to his desk. "Are you any good with numbers?"

"Ex-excuse me?" she asked, frowning slightly.

"Ya worked in Finance, right? I'm askin' if you're any good with numbers, kid." His voice was rough and deep, his Bronx accent strong. It put her, inexplicably, on edge.

"I suppose so," she replied. "I go over some of the spreadsheets sometimes, just to make sure everything adds up. The accountant I work – _worked_ – for always wanted a second pair of eyes on his stuff."

He gestured to his desktop where she saw a carved coral cigarette box tucked up in one corner, a seashell ashtray beside that, and a stack of leather-bound books in the other corner. "These," he said, laying one hand flat on the books, "are the ledgers from Fontaine Fisheries. I want you to go over them. You'll see two sets of numbers in there from two different guys. If there's any variance, I want you to let me know."

Camille had heard rumors about Fontaine Fisheries. As well as supplying the entirety of Rapture with copious amounts of sea food, it also provided cover for several smuggling rings – drugs, guns, Bibles. She kept her expression impassive and took up the ledgers. "Are you expecting any variance, Mr. Fontaine?" she asked slowly.

He drained his glass and set it down with a crack. "Not if those assholes down at Port Neptune know what's good for 'em."

She nodded, shifting uneasily on her feet.

Fontaine's eyebrows rose on his forehead. "Whaddaya waitin' for, kid?" he demanded, a hint of impatience hardening his voice. He made a shooing motion. "If I need you, I'll ask for you. _Go_."

She blushed, realizing that she had been waiting for him to say _Thanks_. "Right, okay," she mumbled, spinning on her heel and dashing for the door.

Fontaine cocked his head, watching her scurry away, watching the straight narrow seams of her stockings disappear up the back of her skirt. She gave him one final nervous glance as she closed the door, bottom lip between her teeth.

His old secretary had waddled around like she was the Queen of Sheba. Real smug. Too smart for her own fucking good. Thought that the title of _Frank Fontaine's secretary _meant that she could take more than she deserved. But Camille Adler looked like a girl who knew her place. She was absolutely terrified of him but was completely powerless to do anything about it. Those sorts of circumstances bred desperation, and desperation was exactly what he wanted from his subordinates. A desperate employee – whether here or at Port Neptune – was an employee who wasn't going to stir trouble. A desperate employee was an employee who was going to sit down, do their work, and keep their mouth shut.

There had been something else in her eyes, too, as she'd stared at his office and as she'd offered him her hand to shake, like she wanted to prove she wasn't scared of him: awe. Awe at the level of power, money, and respect. Awe at her own newfound position. Awe at seeing just how far a man could make it in Rapture.

And he certainly liked being on the receiving end of awe.

Later, Camille sat at her desk, flipping a pencil through her fingers. She had gone through the ledgers twice, slowly and meticulously, with a calculator. Her eyes were tired. She hadn't moved from her desk for what felt like hours, not even for a cup of coffee. Upstairs in Finance, girls were always dashing off to the kitchen for a hot drink and a spot of gossip; sitting outside Frank Fontaine's office, Camille didn't dare get up to even stretch her legs.

She wondered if Fontaine was hungry or thirsty. She hadn't seen nor heard from him since their first meeting. Perhaps, she mused, he had a secret door that led out of his office. It did seem like something he would have had installed. Sighing, she tossed the pencil down and began to pick at her thumb. It was a long-standing habit, one she had tried on many occasions to break; the tip of her left index finger was already wrapped in a bandage where she'd ripped the skin clean off her cuticle.

A cigarette, that's what she needed. She extracted a Nico Time from the packet in her desk drawer and fumbled in her bag for her matchbook. She struck one, but it broke. Shifting her cigarette to the side of her mouth, she carefully tried to light another match, but it broke, one half skittering across the open ledger on her desk. "Dammit," she muttered.

Then, at her shoulder, she heard a lighter snap open and ignite with a smooth roll. Fontaine stood beside her and offered her the small, flickering flame. "Still usin' matches?" he asked in mock-admonishment.

She looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, the cigarette hanging limply from between her lips. When had he come out of his office? How long had he been standing there? Then, she remembered herself and quickly lipped the cigarette to the flame. "Thank you," she said. She smiled nervously. "I like matches, Mr. Fontaine. I like the smell of them when they ignite."

"Ya finished with those?" he drawled, jerking his chin at the ledgers. Suddenly, he was all-business.

Camille took a quick, steadying drag on her cigarette and braced it between her first two fingers. "I've gone through them. A couple of times."

Fontaine lit himself a cigarette, pulling one from a sleek silver case and sticking it between his lips; he opened his lighter, tilted his head, and puffed once, twice, before snapping the lighter shut and blowing smoke from the side of his mouth, all in one smooth motion. "And?"

"Everything's in order, Mr. Fontaine. The numbers add up. Except for–" She lowered her voice; he leant in, one hand braced on the back of her chair. "Except for here, this delivery to the Kashmir. This number that's noted _here_, that's what you got paid by the restaurant. It's the same number in both ledgers but see how it looks like it's been changed? Anyway, I called the Kashmir and asked them to check their receipts. They paid you at least one hundred dollars more for this particular order. Someone altered the numbers in the books. I…" She trailed off and shrugged. Twisting her cigarette between her fingers, she added, "I don't know what it means."

He straightened up, his expression suddenly very hard. "I fuckin' knew it," he muttered, taking a long drag and expelling two streams of smoke from his nostrils.

"Mr. Fontaine?" she asked, twisting in her seat and peering up at him.

"There're a few guys down at Port Neptune who been causin' me trouble lately, kid. I have it on good authority that they been makin' a lotta extra scratch on the side. Now, I know how. One of 'em's been skimmin' a little off what I get paid for those deliveries, cuttin' it between the group, changin' the ledgers." He trailed his index finger along the line of hair above his upper lip and then said, "Ya did good, kid. Wouldn't have picked up on it 'cept you called the restaurant."

Camille smiled, completely reflexively. "Thank you, Mr. Fontaine." She shut the ledgers and handed them to him. She wanted to ask him why, if he was so worried about being ripped off, he didn't look at his own books, but certainly a man like Fontaine didn't have time for that sort of thing. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll head to Port Neptune, set some people straight," he drawled. His tone was edged with ice.

"Oh." She puffed on her cigarette. "Okay."

He flashed her a grin around his cigarette and, books tucked under his arm, swaggered past the oscillating gun turret and out of sight.

It occurred to her, watching Frank Fontaine walk away, that she had just condemned a man to die. Fontaine was not one to take being cheated lightly. She'd heard rumours all around the city that there were shallow salt ponds underneath the Lower Wharves where anyone who crossed Frank Fontaine ended up, after a lengthy round of punishment in the cold storage rooms. Now, whoever had doctored those numbers was about to end up drowned in a sack – but she didn't care. Fontaine approved of her work, and that meant more in Rapture than the life of one lowly fisheries employee.

She waited a quarter of an hour before deciding to go into Fontaine's office and tidy it up whilst he was out. Inside, the air was chilly. She moved slowly towards his desk, staring at the ceiling, watching schools of silver-finned fish dart overhead like flocks of birds. Sometimes, Rapture never ceased to amaze her. The novelty of living at the bottom of the sea was yet to wear off and, working in a high-profile company like Fontaine Futuristics, the capacity for man's greatness seemed boundless.

Standing in Fontaine's office, turning a slow circle and taking in every exquisite furnishing, a man's capacity for success seemed equally boundless. In half a day, she had moved so far up the ladder, from secretary to some shit-kicker accountant in Finance to secretary to Mr. Frank Fontaine. She felt untouchable. Despite her earlier apprehension, she had to admit that it was refreshing to work with a man like Fontaine; a man who, yes, did many questionable things, but who did them quite freely and who flaunted the rewards with unashamed pride. A man for whom Rapture had been built.

Travers had stressed to her that the position was temporary and that she would be replaced within a week, but Camille found herself aching to remain in the role. It was the way Fontaine had looked at her after she'd revealed the error in the ledgers: he'd looked at her like she was important, like she mattered. To _him_. If she stayed, she would be able to save up a lot of money, move out of her crummy little apartment, maybe move out of secretarial work altogether. She made a quiet vow to herself, standing inside Fontaine's office, that she would make herself indispensable to him – and in a week's time, he would beg to keep her on.

She emptied his ashtray of cigarette butts, took away his dirty tumblers, and tidied up the wet bar. Some of the bottles were from Sinclair Spirits and Ryan's own distilleries, though most were imported from the surface. Camille felt her heart seize at the very thought of the surface. Even after almost six years, the idea of having left everything behind still hurt. But she had to look forward. Rapture was a new beginning for humanity, and for her.

She set out a clean cut-glass tumbler on his desk, with a coaster, and left his office.

Fontaine returned later, flanked on either side by his bodyguards. Camille started at the sight of them: their fists were as big as Christmas hams, their necks as thick as her thigh. Shrinking down in her seat, she asked, "How is everything, Mr. Fontaine?"

His face betrayed nothing, save for a faint smirk which just skimmed the edges of his eyes. "Good, kid. Everythin's real good." He hooked his thumb between the meatheads. "These're my muscle. Larry and Gene. This is my secretary, boys. Well, the replacement."

Nobody made a move to shake hands. Camille smiled tightly and flicked her wrist in a small, awkward wave. Larry and Gene simply stood there. They looked like they were on some serious gene tonics, probably at the instruction of Fontaine.

"So, kid, ya headed home?" he asked, checking the watch hanging from the front of his waistcoat. "It's about that time."

Immediately, she reached for her notepad and pen. "If that's all right with you, Mr. Fontaine. There isn't anything you need from me, right? I sorted your appointments for tomorrow and filed the day's correspondence away for you."

Fontaine grinned; his eyes glittered with cold mirth. "Nah. S'long as tomorrow you're here on time."

She nodded wordlessly, looking pointedly at Fontaine and making an effort to avoid the eyes of his bodyguards. She could feel them glaring at her, sizing her up; as if she could _possibly_ be a threat to their boss. Suddenly, she thought about whether or not Fontaine had taken the bodyguards to Neptune's Bounty, to sort out the issue of the deliveries. A man like Fontaine didn't look like he taught his own lessons, unless it was absolutely necessary; no, a man like Fontaine could pay someone else to teach his lessons for him. Her eyes dropped to the bodyguards' hands, hanging at their sides. Were their knuckles raw? She couldn't tell.

"What's up?" Fontaine drawled.

She blinked, straightened up, and forced a smile. "Oh, nothing. I just…" She swallowed. "That's all?"

He chuckled. "That's all, kid."

"Okay. Well, see you tomorrow." She fumbled for her handbag, stuffing her things away. "Have a good night, Mr. Fontaine," she added, slinging her coat over her arm.

He smiled at her, flashing very straight, very white teeth. "You too."

"Have a good night, Vernon," she said as she passed through the security gate. The guard waved his hand limply; he had a copy of the _Rapture Tribune_ open on the console. She raced down the stairs, which curved around a large, twining statue of a double helix that stretched to the high, arching ceiling overhead. The lobby of the Fontaine building was impressive and each time Camille made the walk to and from the station, she found herself buoyed by the possibilities that the expansive marble, lush green ferns, and art deco furnishings seemed to offer.

When she was alone in the transparent underwater tunnel that crossed over to the station, she allowed herself a moment to reflect. When she had woken up this morning, she had no idea that she would be ending her day as _Frank Fontaine's secretary_. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she cast her gaze out to the ocean which lay spread out before her. The lights of the city glittered like distant stars. She wasn't sure how she felt about Fontaine yet. Of course, his reputation preceded him. A lot of people talked about what a crook he was. Rumour had it that he'd started out as a confidence man on the surface; and almost certainly that cunning had followed him down to Rapture. But he had been entirely courteous with her. There was a decidedly charming side to him and she figured, being his secretary, being a _good_ secretary, it would be the only side of him she would see.

She took the train to the tram hub near Olympus Heights, and then climbed into a crowded, rickety tram car which chugged along to Artemis Suites. Always, the brief glimpse of how the other half lived in Olympus Heights awed her. The brilliant neon lighting, the clean boulevards, the fashionable bistros. Well-dressed men and women heading home to their lavish apartments. Always, Camille felt a stab of envy.

When she had first moved in, the Artemis Suites had been rather nice, if a little under-furnished. Simple living quarters, quaint public garden beds. Not a great view of the ocean swirling outside, which made things feel a little claustrophobic. As more and more people found themselves either unemployed or struggling financially, however, the low-cost housing had rapidly filled up and now it was unbearable. And dangerous. Just last week, there was a fire in one of the apartments upstairs, and the place was so crowded and so badly designed that no one could get to the door to escape in time. Camille squeezed her eyes shut; the smell of charred remains _still_ lingered.

Her apartment was on the third floor of the complex, a small and cramped space, but thankfully it wasn't one of the rooms where three or four families had to squeeze in together. She let herself in, set the latch on the door, and kicked off her shoes. She was yet to go to the Farmer's Market and pick up some food; in the Frigidaire, she found some leftovers – fish and hydroponically-grown vegetables – which she didn't bother heating up.

Her neighbors began to argue. Again. She put on a record to drown out the shouting. It was a Frank Sinatra vinyl she had purchased from Rapture Records. It was getting harder and harder to find good _surface _music in the city; most of the records sold in Fort Frolic were Sander Cohen recordings. She picked at her dinner, then her nails, then lit a cigarette.

She had one week to make a good and lasting impression on Fontaine. So far, she hadn't put a foot wrong. Tomorrow, she would be even more accommodating. If Fontaine insisted that she stay on with him, she could only imagine how she would benefit. A substantial pay-rise, for one. And having a man like Fontaine on-side couldn't hurt either. He was a big link in the Great Chain, to borrow from Andrew Ryan's favourite phrase.

There was a crash and a thump from next door, and the thin wall rattled. A small, cheap print fell from its hook on the wall. Camille rolled her eyes and flopped down onto her bed, pressing her shoulders into the thin mattress. Tomorrow, Fontaine was going to be spending a lot of time in the labs. If she stuck with him, she might get close to plasmids. They were only a year old; the industry was fresh and there were plenty of places to be filled. Her heart raced in anticipation of the possibility that she might earn one of those places.

And then she could do away with cheap prints on the wall and small, crowded apartments and _truly_ live out her Rapture dream, just as Andrew Ryan wanted for all his citizens.


	2. II

"So, what's it like working for Fontaine?" Helen, one of the girls from Finance, asked. She leant against the counter in the kitchen, watching as Camille made up a tray with a fresh pot of coffee, milk, and sugar. "You know we're all _terrified_ for you. Working for the Boogeyman. It must be awful."

Camille smiled, faintly. Every morning that she walked into the Fontaine building, she could feel eyes on her. Sometimes she caught some of the other secretaries giving her pitying looks. Whilst she sat at her desk, it was as if she didn't exist; no one came down to see her (not that they could get past the turret) and, sometimes, they avoided her altogether as though Fontaine might be lurking nearby. "It's fine," she answered. "_I'm_ not scared."

Marion, sitting at a small table and reading one of Bella Mia Salon's catalogues, huffed a sigh. "Of course you're not. Look at you. Fontaine 's probably glad to have a pretty young thing like you hanging around."

Camille said nothing to that. She didn't like Marion's tone.

"Whatever happened to Shirley?" Helen asked.

"I heard she had to give up her place in the Mars Suites and move somewhere cheaper," Camille said non-committally. She didn't feel comfortable talking about Fontaine's old secretary.

"_I_ heard they found her hanging in some dingy corner of the Atlantic Express station," Marion put in, her voice very low, very conspiratorial.

Now, Camille froze. She felt the color drain from her face in a cold rush. "That's ridiculous," she said, and she could hear how weak her voice was. "Shirley was – _is_ – a seasoned secretary. She got another job, easy."

Marion clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. "You're so naïve, honey," she sighed. "She got caught rifling through Fontaine's private safes. I hear someone from Ryan Industries had paid her for whatever she could find. You think that Fontaine would just let that go? No way. Shirley is _dead_."

Camille hands trembled as she arranged a teaspoon on the saucer. The porcelain rattled. "Those are just rumours," she said, though she was entirely unconvinced. She had heard similar stories going around. One in particular was that Shirley had ended up in one of the processors that ground fish into paste down at Fontaine Fisheries. She took several deep breaths. Shirley had been an idiot; she wasn't going to be so stupid.

"He'll be in soon," she mumbled as she took up the tray and raced from the kitchen. She let herself into his office, set the tray on his desk, and straightened up his ashtray, his box of cigarettes, the interoffice communicator. She felt the glassy eyes of the taxidermied bear on her as she moved and, for one ridiculous moment, she wondered if there was a camera inside it.

The door opened with a crack and Fontaine strode in, his bodyguards following close behind. Camille turned from his desk, her eyes wide. His expression was dark as he peeled off his long overcoat; she found herself searching for the glitter of suspicion in his eyes. She quickly moved away from his desk. "Good morning, Mr. Fontaine," she said, slightly breathy. Her heartbeat was in her throat. "I'm sorry, I thought I would get you some coffee–"

He cut her off by thrusting his arm out, giving her his coat to hang up.

"I'm sorry," she said again, taking the coat with a bob of her head.

Fontaine threw himself down into his chair and smoothed the thin line of moustache above his upper lip, staring pensively at the surface of his desk. His eyes narrowed. He intensity of his stare, coupled with the sharp lines of his face, made Camille think of a jungle cat on the hunt, peering through the darkness, contemplating its next move. Then, he lifted his gaze to her and offered her a slow smile. "Thanks, kid," he said, moving to pour himself some coffee. "I'll call ya if I need ya."

The vise in her chest relaxed. She nodded, hung his coat up, and left his office. At her desk, she picked at her thumb until it bled then put it between her lips and, one-handed, flipped through the morning correspondence. At twelve, Fontaine had a meeting with the heads of Marketing to discuss the new plasmids advertisements that were running in the city. She'd seen a few of them, posters plastered on the walls near the station and full-page spreads in the newspapers; she'd also seen the empty hypodermic needles that littered the ground near the Artemis Suites, and the strung-out users accidentally lighting themselves on fire because they had no idea how to control themselves.

With a small sigh to herself, she noted the meeting down in his appointment book.

As it approached noon, Fontaine buzzed her. "_We got that meetin' soon, kid_," he said.

She thought she'd misheard him. "We?" she echoed, frowning.

"_I want you to sit in, take some notes_." It was hard to tell, but he sounded amused.

"Okay, yes," she said quickly, and she hastily bundled her notepad and some pens together. When Fontaine came out of his office, his bodyguards were nowhere in sight. He smoothed his tie, the jewelled pin nestled against the silk glittering, and said, "Lock up the desk. Make sure the turret is on."

Camille wanted to say that she didn't think anyone in their right mind would come near his office without his permission, but she did as he asked. It was a short walk to the Marketing boardroom. There were a handful of executives seated at the long table; an untouched jug of water sweated in the centre of the polished wood. Fontaine took a seat at the head of the table and Camille dragged one of the chairs to the corner of the room; Fontaine, however, beckoned her closer. Notepad balanced on her knee, she waited.

"Plasmid sales are up this quarter. The advertisements really are a hit and the free samples are drawing a lot of people in."

"People respond really well to the idea that plasmids aren't just for the wealthy dames and gents in the city. They're available to _everyone_. So, we've bought some space in Pauper's Drop for ads. They've been forgotten by Ryan, but not by Fontaine."

"The new line of gene tonics is ready to be rolled out at the Adonis. A coupla gals from Eve's Garden will be doing testimonials."

Camille jotted all of it down in her shorthand scrawl. Once or twice, she gnawed on her thumb but quickly stopped when she caught an executive glaring at her. The plasmid market was expanding fast. Fontaine's face would be everywhere in no time. And that, no doubt, would anger Andrew Ryan.

"I want more time on that Rapture Radio," Fontaine said. "Buy up as much as you can. I'm gettin' sick of hearin' Ryan's voice all the time. _And_ Cohen's."

"It's expensive."

"It's expensive," Fontaine snapped, "'cause it's _worthwhile_. A lotta people listen to it. Ryan knows it and he don't think I'm gonna be willin' to pay the big money. Well, boys, I _am_ willin'. And able."

"We'll get working on some new jingles right away."

Camille made a few more notes, daring to peer at Fontaine from the corner of her eye. He looked entirely at ease at the head of the conference table. His hand rested on the wood and she caught the glitter of a gold signet ring.

"There are some questions about what new plasmids the labs are going to come up with."

Fontaine arched an eyebrow and shrugged. "When I know, you'll know, 'kay?" The tone of his voice, while civil, suggested that there was no further room to talk about the subject.

The meeting ended quickly, with the executives filing out, murmuring amongst themselves. Fontaine leant back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "So?" he drawled with a grin, turning to her. "How was that?"

Camille shrugged and tapped the tip of her pen on the page. "It was alright, Mr. Fontaine. I like knowing how things work around here. Seems a lot of work goes into plasmids, not just in the lab."

"Runnin' a business is _all_ about the brand, kid." He crossed his ankle over his knee. His stare was incredibly unnerving. "Whaddaya think?"

She balked, looked down at her lap, resisted the urge to pick at her thumb. "About–about the plasmids?" she asked slowly.

He nodded. "You don't use 'em at all?" he asked.

"No." Then, she quickly added, "Not because I don't think they're a good product, Mr. Fontaine."

He chuckled. "Kid, cut the crap. I ain't an idiot. I'm not surprised you don't use 'em."

Camille chose her next words very carefully: "Where I live, Mr. Fontaine, a lot of people use plasmids. And those gene tonics. They're a marvel, they really are, but they make people… crazy. And a lot of people don't know how to safely use them."

"So, what, we should have some public demos?" he asked, a small sneer twisting his lips.

The corner of her mouth lifted with a faint smile. "Not public," she said. She flipped her pen through her fingers. "I think you should bring the free samples to a close and set up a... a plasmid theatre. A place where people can pay a fee and see just how to use plasmids. _Properly_. The only exposure some people get is watching users having fights in the streets. And then, when people seen how to use plasmids safely, they'll probably be more inclined to buy."

Fontaine nodded, the shadows beneath his eyes growing and shrinking as he moved in the overhead light. He grinned at her, his teeth very straight and very white. "Sounds like you shoulda been sittin' at that table just now," he said.

Camille dropped her eyes to her lap. She felt warmth rise in her cheeks. Was he mocking her? She couldn't tell. "I'm just a secretary, Mr. Fontaine," she muttered. "You've got a whole bunch of people for that sort of thing."

"And if I wanted to listen to their bullshit, I'd've kept 'em in here." His tone was hard and cold and sharp. "They just tell me what I wanna hear. When people lie to me, it's 'cause they think I'm a schmuck. And I _ain't_."

Camille kept her eyes down as she nodded. "I wouldn't lie to you, Mr. Fontaine," she said.

"Good. I appreciate honesty, kid." He took a heavy drag on his cigarette and shot two streams of smoke through his nostrils. "Make a note of that plasmid theatre idea," he said, jabbing with the glowing end of his cigarette. "I'll get 'em onto it next week."

As they left the boardroom, he put his hand on her shoulder and gave a short squeeze.

In the afternoon, Camille busied herself with the ledgers. It was a daily routine now. Fontaine Fisheries was knocking some of the smaller companies out of business and taking on their clientele. The numbers were remarkable, and Camille found herself impressed with Fontaine's ruthlessness. After all, Rapture was a free market without regulations. It would be foolish for anyone to run a business without a little cunning.

And, she noticed, in the days since her discovery about the doctored numbers for the Kashmir delivery, there hadn't been anything out of place in the ledgers. Fontaine had obviously put the fear of God into his employees down at Port Neptune. Suddenly, she thought about Shirley being ground up into pale pink fish paste and she was instantly horrified. She shut the books and put them aside, mentally scolding herself for giving space to nasty steno-pool gossip. The telephone rang with a sudden shrill and she lunged for the receiver.

"Frank Fontaine's office," she sang, cradling the receiver between her ear and shoulder and reaching for her notepad.

"Cam? It's Helen."

"Hi, Helen." Camille twisted in her seat and stared at Fontaine's closed office door. She took her bottom lip between her teeth then lowered her voice. "What can I do for you?"

"A _huge _favour. Please. I'm about to send two envelopes down in the pneumo. One's a letter and the other is fifty bucks." Helen sighed. "Look, I know that Fontaine smuggles letters out of Rapture all the time. Could you just ask him to make sure that one gets to the States?"

"I–I don't know." Camille also knew that Fontaine smuggled letters out of the city but she figured it was all done through an intermediary who worked down at Port Neptune. After all, Fontaine didn't seem like the kind of man to get his hands dirty if he could help it. "Can't you ask one of the guys who runs the subs down at the fisheries? I don't think–"

"I don't wanna be ripped off, Cam. _Please_. One letter. He'll do it for you. I have to go, Doris is staring at me." And Helen hung up.

Camille stared at the receiver, listening to the faint droning dial tone. A few moments later, she heard the _whoosh_ of the pneumo. She retrieved the two envelopes; one was addressed to her and when she ripped it open, she found a crisp fifty. Ryan's small, printed face seemed to look at her with paternal disapproval.

She waited until the end of the working day to speak to Fontaine. He lounged behind his desk, a glass of bourbon in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. She stood awkwardly at the door until he called her down with a wave of his hand.

"You don't always gotta stand there, kid," he drawled, though he smiled. "If you're gonna come in, come in. I ain't gonna bite."

She smiled, but it was weak. "Mr. Fontaine," she began slowly, "before I go home I, ah, have a question."

"Mmm?" he asked over the sharp rim of his glass as he took a mouthful of bourbon and swallowed.

Helen's letter was tucked in her handbag. She pulled it out, and the fifty, and held them out to him. "I've got, ah, a letter. To the surface. I was wondering if you would take care of that. Please."

One eyebrow arched, Fontaine leant across the desk and took the letter. He read the address. "They're your family?"

"No." She shook her head, looked at her shoes, and added, "It's not–it's not _my_ letter, Mr. Fontaine. One of the girls I work with upstairs, she wanted me to ask you personally if you'd have it delivered and I told her I would. Ask you, I mean."

He nodded, slowly. She dared to glance up at him; his eyes were fixed firmly on her. She counted every thumping heartbeat in her chest and then he slipped the letter and the money away into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. "No problem, kid," he said. "This ain't usually how I do things, but I'll make an exception just once." His cheek wrinkled with a smirk. "So don't go around tellin' everyone, 'kay?"

Camille smiled as relief flooded through her. "I won't, Mr. Fontaine. Thank you."

She left work and headed for the tram. As she climbed into the crowded car, jostling for a seat towards the back, she considered that there were only a few days left until she would have to return to Finance. Being with Fontaine was beginning to open doors to her; the meeting about the plasmids had been exciting, and he'd wanted her opinion, _and_ he was going to look into implementing her idea! Never before had she felt so important. Surely that counted for something.

Still, nobody had said anything to her about where she would be next week, and, bar the meeting, all Fontaine had her do was type his correspondence and keep his office organized; it certainly wasn't a hopeful situation. She reminded herself that she hadn't quite left the Artemis Suites behind and, as the tram pulled up at the dingy station with its flickering lighting and grimy tiles, she began to wonder if she ever would.

* * *

><p>At the end of the week, Fontaine had Travers in front of his desk. Fontaine smoked a small cigar and nursed a tumbler of whiskey. Travers stood rigidly, perspiring nervously, as if bracing for a blow from a schoolteacher. Fontaine smirked around his cigar.<p>

"So, Mr. Fontaine, you called me down here?" the personnel manager said slowly.

Fontaine blinked languidly. He had been so focused on enjoying the obvious effect he was having on this short, fat nobody that he had let the purpose of their meeting escape him. He quickly regained his composure and jabbed at the air with his cigar. "Yeah, it's about that girl out there."

"Camille Adler," Travers offered with a nod. "I apologize profusely, Mr. Fontaine, but she was the only one who could be spared from upstairs."

Fontaine waved the explanation away, leaving a trail of blue smoke in the air. "I wanna keep her on."

"But Mr. Fontaine…" Travers fumbled in his pocket for a small handkerchief, squeezed it in his fist, and then stuffed it away. "We've actually found a permanent replacement–"

"I don't care," Fontaine interrupted icily. "I'm sick of the idiots you keep sending me. This girl is quick. She knows what she's doin'. I don't wanna waste more of _my_ time trainin' some other broad up. Let's just stick with her."

Now, Travers frowned. "But she's so–so _young. _And she's never held such an important position 't you want somebody with a little more, ah, experience?"

"What, like the old dame I had last?" Fontaine sneered. "Nah. I can't stand the older ones." His voice hardened and he pointed the smoking tip of his cigar at Travers. "Listen, I told you what I want, so make it happen."

Travers spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Yes, Mr. Fontaine. I mean, it _is_ your business…"

"That's right," Fontaine said coldly.

Travers' shoulders slumped, as though he were deflating right there. "I'll, ah, make a note of Miss Adler's permanent transfer," he said with a sigh of finality.

"Good."

Travers did not wait for Fontaine to dismiss him. He raced from the office, pausing only to offer Camille a tight, humourless smile. She watched him go, her stomach roiling; she knew exactly what Travers had been in Fontaine's office for – to discuss who would be Fontaine's next, _permanent_ secretary. She had desperately tried to read Travers' expression as he smiled at her, but his thinned lips spoke only of frustration and stress. She sighed and resumed her typing.

When the door to Fontaine's office opened and he swaggered into view, Camille straightened up expectantly. She watched as he shrugged into an expensive-looking jacket, the lining of which was dark blue silk that shimmered like the ocean outside. "I'm goin' to Point Prometheus," he said casually. The unspoken instruction was, _Stay here and don't get up_.

"Okay, Mr. Fontaine," she said, forcing a polite, impersonal smile. He strode away without a backwards glance. Fontaine was tall and imposing. He was rough, too, but the tailored clothing and shining cuff links seemed to suit him well. He hadn't come from money, that much was certain, but the role of wealthy businessman was one he slipped into with ease. She waited until the heavy, steady tread of his footsteps was gone and then lit herself a cigarette.

Fontaine returned hours later, looking smug and satisfied. Camille, still at her desk like the good, dutiful secretary that she was, smiled as he approached. "How was your visit to Point Prometheus?" she asked. It was a question she didn't particularly want the answer to, but she asked it out of courtesy.

"Good, good. Always good," he replied, his cheek wrinkling in a mysterious half-smile. "Everythin' good here?"

"Yes, Mr. Fontaine. Finance sent down a few funding requests for you to approve, Marketing left a message to say they would have feedback from the new advertisements by tomorrow morning, and a couple of shipping manifests came through in the pneumo from Port Neptune. They're on your desk, they just need your signature."

Fontaine grinned at her. "Very organized, kiddo," he said. "Come get the books."

She followed him into his office, watching with quiet pride as his head turned, taking in the neat state of things. He threw his suit jacket over the back of his chair and handed her the appointment book and a couple of ledgers. She needed no further instruction from him but she lingered in front of his desk. The question about her employment was tangled in her throat.

But Fontaine simply said, "Get those done."

She bobbed her head.

"Then, I wanna have a talk."

Now, she stiffened. She could feel her pulse skipping on the surface of her skin. "O-oh. Yes, Mr. Fontaine."

When she was back at her desk, she crushed the ledgers to her chest and gnawed anxiously on her bottom lip. His tone had given nothing away, nor had his expression. It was typical, though. Fontaine hadn't gotten to where he was by letting everyone see what hand he was playing. She sat, opened the books, and began to run down the columns with a pen and a calculator. Absently, she chewed on the side of her fingernail.

As usual, everything was acceptable. She trailed her eyes down the page. Some of the outgoing funds were in small, regular amounts. Payments to someone, maybe, as insurance. Maybe Ryan's constables. She leant back in her chair, flipping the pen through her fingers. The building was quiet, the lights dim. Most of the employees had gone home. She blew out her cheeks, gathered the books up, and entered Fontaine's office with a knock.

He sat at his desk dictating into an Accu-Vox recorder. She strode down the length of his office and, as she approached, he switched the recorder off. There was a rickety wooden chair in front of his desk. "Sit down."

She did so, smoothing her skirt.

"So?"

"Everything's fine," she said, sliding the ledgers across his desk. "And I've confirmed all your appointments for tomorrow."

Fontaine nodded. "Cigarette?" he offered, holding open the carved coral box.

"Oh. Yes, thanks." She took one and let him light it for her. She exhaled and smiled. "This is good," she said, holding the cigarette out to examine the thin white paper.

He chuckled as he lit one for himself. "It's not a Rapture cigarette, that's why."

She paled and rested the cigarette in the ashtray Fontaine had pushed across the desk to her.

"Don't worry, kid," he drawled, smirking at her. "Smoke it! It's better than the shit that passes for tobacco down here."

She remained still, hands folded in her lap. Fontaine smuggled, she knew that. But she had never before been so close to the contraband. "Sorry Mr. Fontaine," she mumbled, shaking her head. "I'm not… _comfortable_."

"What, are ya worried Ryan's gonna come and arrest you?" he asked with a snort. "Ya don't need to panic, kid. I cover my ass well." He took a long drag, narrowing his eyes in the rising haze as he exhaled through his teeth. "Betcha wanna know what Travers had to say this mornin', huh?"

She said nothing. She didn't need to, though, because he saw the way her eyes widened and how her hands twisted together anxiously.

"I like you, kid. You're quick, you're organized."

"That's just my job, Mr. Fontaine," she said with a shrug.

"What didja think, workin' for me this week?"

She fought to keep her eyes on him but her gaze slid to the side. "I was… apprehensive at first. It wasn't something I was prepared for. Travers didn't think so either." She paused and he looked to her to continue. "I was intimidated. But once I settled in, I felt capable." Now, she looked at him again. "I'm a good secretary, Mr. Fontaine. I graduated top of my secretarial college in New York. I feel like, here, working for you, I could be more."

He nodded slowly. "Good, kid. That's what I wanna hear. I don't need a secretary, I need someone who's got my back. Yeah, you'll be doin' all the clerical shit but a lotta what I do don't happen in the office. You get me?"

Camille nodded. She didn't quite trust herself to speak.

"You think you can handle that?"

"Yes, Mr. Fontaine," she said, her voice surprisingly level.

He smirked at her. "That means I can't have you turnin' green at the sight of a carton of smuggled cigarettes, kid. I run a very _wide_ business and some of it you ain't gonna agree with. And if you can't stomach it, that's too fuckin' bad." His voice turned dark. He pulled on the cigarette and let smoke pour out of his nostrils. "I'm offerin' you a _very_ good deal, kid, you get me? You can either take it or not, but I can assure you that you'll regret it if you don't. Do you understand?"

She flinched as though his words had cut her.

"I didn't catch that," he barked.

She drew breath to speak, then hesitated. She hadn't ever considered that she would play this kind of role with him. She pushed her own apprehension away and let ambition bloom in its place. "Yes, Mr. Fontaine." She exhaled slowly and looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. "I do want this job. Very badly." As if to appease him, she reached out for the smuggled cigarette and tapped ash off the end.

Fontaine grinned like a shark and thrust his hand out to her. His signet ring glittered at her like a treasure begging to be grabbed. Camille reached out across the desk and grasped his hand, shaking it.

"I'm very excited, kiddo," he said.

"So am I, Mr. Fontaine." And she meant it.

He broke the handshake and leant back in his chair, puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette. "Got any questions?"

_What happened to your old secretary?_ she wanted to ask, but she swallowed it down. "So… that's it?"

"That's it, kid," Fontaine said, nodding. "Travers is already workin' on making your transfer permanent. The pay office will be notified and you'll get a new I.D. tag."

Camille smiled. Fontaine seemed thoroughly pleased that she had accepted.

So," he said, studying the narrow twist of smoke rising from the end of his cigarette, "you mentioned where ya live the other day. Where is that?"

Camille savoured a long, deep drag on her cigarette. It tasted good, much better than the cigarettes they sold in Rapture. _Real_ tobacco. She could almost taste the sunshine which had dried out the leaves. "I have an apartment in the Artemis Suites." She shrugged, blushing, and looked down. "It's small but it's home."

"Artemis Suites?" Fontaine snorted.

She blew a stream of smoke to the ceiling, stung by his derisive attitude. "I'm a _secretary_, Mr. Fontaine. I can't exactly afford anywhere else," she spat, blinking furiously through the haze of smoke. She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth and looked at her lap again.

He, however, seemed to like it. He laughed and winked at her. "I'll see to it you're taken care of." He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and laced his fingers together over the back of his head, stretching in his chair. "That's what I'm about, kid. You look after me, I look after you. It's how you survive down here and you'll come to better understand that in the next few weeks."

Camille gaped. She wanted to know what he meant and, more desperately, why he wanted to help her out when she hadn't even officially started working for him. Perhaps he was trying to make things nice and easy, butter her up, so that when the hard slog came, she'd have no other choice. _It goes both ways_, she reminded herself. _I help him, he helps me. _

On the way home from work she stopped off at one of Rapture's more expensive shopping arcades and bought herself a pale pink coral brooch in the shape of a seashell, with a single lustrous pearl at its heart. It was well more than she could comfortably afford, but she wanted to wear it when they took her photo for her new Fontaine Futuristics I.D. tag.


	3. III

It was clear that Fontaine had a standing reservation at the Silver Fin restaurant. The maître d', very formal in black tails, greeted him with a wide smile and a low bow and told the nearest waiter to "escort Mr. Fontaine and his guest to his usual table." Larry and Gene were told to wait near the cloakroom.

Fontaine gestured for Camille to walk ahead of him though he kept his hand an inch or so from the small of her back, as though he were guiding her. She walked with short, quick steps and kept her head low. People were staring. Still, she stole glances around at the restaurant from beneath her eyelashes: it was resplendent, styled almost entirely in mirrored surfaces to give the impression of a great school of fish, their scales winking and flashing like silver dollars as they moved as one through the ocean; chandeliers hung from the ceiling, capturing the swirling ocean light that streamed in, refracting it into bright blue shards. To Camille, it looked as though the ceiling had several streaming leaks.

The waiter led them to a bay of tall panoramic windows at the back of the restaurant where immaculate tables stood atop a row of small daises. Fontaine would be able to look over the restaurant with ease, like a king looking over his court. Camille mumbled her thanks as the waiter pulled out her chair for her and fumbled for her notepad and a pen to set on the crisp white tablecloth. She didn't like the waiter's expression – smug and knowing – and wanted to emphasize that this was _business_.

Fontaine unbuttoned his jacket and threw himself into his chair. He gestured with a sharp flap of his hand. "Put that away, Cam," he said, smiling, as though he knew why she had her pen poised between her fingers.

At noon, Fontaine had buzzed her and told her that they were going to lunch. When she had asked with whom, he'd simply replied, "Just me and you, kid."

Slowly, she capped her pen and slipped it and the notepad away. She smiled to show him that she was content, though her hands twisted in her lap. She resisted the urge to pick at her thumb.

The waiter offered them each a menu and then Fontaine waved him away. "How d'ya like your new place?" he drawled as he opened the menu, his eyes lazily trailing down the page.

"Very much, Mr. Fontaine," she answered, almost without thinking. "Thank you," she added. In the few weeks since becoming his full-time secretary, she had started answering him quickly and robotically, sometimes without even really registering what he'd said: _Yes, Mr. Fontaine. No, Mr. Fontaine. Of course, Mr. Fontaine. _His voice, that coarse Bronx rumble, had become a command in and of itself, and she leapt whenever she heard it.

Now, though, she paused and dared to look directly at him. True to his word, Fontaine had organized an apartment for her in the Athena's Glory complex. Olympus Heights, Fontaine's own neighbourhood. Camille had been shocked, had wondered if it was a joke when she'd found the large envelope with the contract and key waiting for her on her desk one morning; but then her furniture had been moved over from Artemis Suites (small and unimpressive next to the polished wood floors, neat tiling, and the high arched glass ceiling overhead) and her apprehension had turned to something resembling giddiness. The first night she'd travelled home from work to her new apartment, she could hardly believe that she would never again gaze longingly down the neat boulevards towards Olympus Heights – now, she was _there_.

"I need to buy some new furniture," she added, reaching for her own menu. Everything looked expensive. She felt her stomach twist and looked, again, to Fontaine. He looked almost bored. She set the menu down and looked through the windows. Below them, the sea bed glowed in pinks and greens; coral formations rose in twisted walls; plants fanned back and forth in an unseen current.

"You okay, kid?"

She jerked her head sharply to look at him. "Fine, Mr. Fontaine," she said quickly. His eyes reminded her of the blade of a knife; his gaze was sharp, precise, cold. As she looked at him – and she fought to keep her eyes on his and not on the pin in his tie – she realized there was soft music playing somewhere. The whole situation was bizarre. His menu lay under his hand and he drummed his fingers against its embossed cover in a slow, steady rhythm. She stared at his hand. It was powerful-looking, with large fingers and a solid, square palm; his nails were neatly manicured; her eyes followed the thick tangle of veins bulging beneath his skin. Although Fontaine had started down in Rapture as a fisheries operator, his hand bore no signs of hard work whatsoever. His gold pinky ring glittered in the mellow restaurant lighting.

She straightened up and trailed her fingertip down her long silver fork. "This is just… very unusual. My boss has never taken me to lunch before." _And especially never to a place as nice as this._

"It's a workin' lunch, Cam," he said, but his words did not relieve her. Instead she felt herself deflate, ever so slightly. "There's a lotta people I gotta keep my eye on in this city, and here is the place to do it." Twisting in his seat, he hooked his thumb towards the centre of a restaurant, grinning like a shark that could smell blood in the water. "For example."

Camille looked and saw Andrew Ryan being seated at the largest table in the establishment. His entourage and hangers-on jostled for the other seats. She felt a flash of awe as she realized she didn't think she had ever been this close to Rapture's founder. Ryan's dark hair was neat, his suit immaculate. He smiled at those seated beside him, a knowing kind of smile, as if he wanted to remind them of the honor.

Fontaine whistled lowly. "Don't Diane McClintock look like she been suckin' on a lemon?" he drawled.

It was true: Diane did not sit next to Ryan, but a few seats down, and wore an expression of true annoyance. She kept one hand raised to her face, fingers pressed to her temple, to block Ryan off, though he made no attempt to speak to her. Camille snorted. "It's got to be that Jasmine Jolene," she said.

"Who?"

Fontaine's eyes were once again fixed firmly on her. It was unnerving, the way he could pin her down that way – but, she was beginning to realize more and more, not entirely unpleasant. A part of her liked that he could, with so small a gesture, focus all his attention on her. She found that she liked being able to draw his attention, even if she did squirm a little in her seat. Her gaze, unable to hold his this time, slid to Diane once more. "Jasmine Jolene. She's a dancer at Fort Frolic. A chorus girl or something. One of the girls from Finance, well her sister works in a…" She trailed off, realizing with an embarrassed jolt just how vacuous her words sounded.

Fontaine, however, gestured for her to continue. He was looking at her like he had when she'd uncovered the discrepancy in his books. She felt bolstered. "One of the girls from Finance, her sister works in a lingerie store along the Golden Strip and _swears_ that Jasmine Jolene came in once, made an enormous purchase, and charged it to Andrew Ryan."

"Did she?" Fontaine asked wonderingly, leaning back in his chair. He trailed his index finger along the line of hair above his upper lip. "Well, well…"

"I dunno, Mr. Fontaine," Camille said with a shrug. "It's just something I heard in the steno-pool. Trashy office gossip. I could be wrong."

Fontaine turned his attention back to Ryan's table. There was a strange glitter in his eyes, something incredibly cunning and intelligent. "Somehow, kid," he purred, "I don't think you are."

The waiter returned and they placed their orders. Fontaine asked for a bottle of expensive Worley wine and insisted that Camille have some. She couldn't say no to him.

In the early afternoon they returned to Fontaine HQ. Camille's stomach churned and her face felt hot. Once, Fontaine pressed his hand to the small of her back as they climbed the stairs to his office. His touch was brief but incredibly firm and she felt the lingering warmth of his hand long after he'd pulled away. He seemed to be doing a little better than she was and told her not to let anything disturb him as he had some important phonecalls to make.

"Yes, Mr. Fontaine," she said, fighting to keep her voice bright. When his door slammed shut, she threw herself down and rummaged in her desk drawers for some aspirin.

After work, she went to the Adonis for a swim to clear her head. The pool was styled with Grecian columns and colourful mosaics. A few people, mostly patrons of the Luxury Resort, lingered around in bath robes, sipping cocktails. Camille slipped into her swimsuit in the change room, tucked her hair under a cap, and wrapped herself in a towel.

The water was cool as she dived in and she charged forward in a flurry of bubbles, her legs kicking furiously, her arms arcing smoothly through the water. She didn't stop until her fingers brushed the smooth tile at the end of the pool and then she surfaced with a deep gasp and craned her neck to stare at the glass ceiling which rose high above her like the dome of a great cathedral. Dark, indistinct forms danced in the green water overhead.

She tried not to let thoughts about lunch with Fontaine bother her but, as she charged back down the length of the pool, she could only think about how hungry he'd looked for whatever she could tell him about Andrew Ryan's personal life. Surely, she thought as she let her body go to the slippery embrace of the water, Fontaine had eyes on Ryan, keeping track of him and his movements?

And then, as she broke through the water at the other end of the pool, her limbs tingling with exertion, she wondered if Fontaine had eyes on_her_.

* * *

><p>Late one evening, Camille heard her doorbell ring and was surprised – and a little sick – to find Frank Fontaine standing there. He was in a dinner suit with slim silk lapels and a neat white pocket square. She mentally flipped through any possible engagements they had but could think of none. Fontaine said, "Hey kiddo, ya busy? Just got a coupla guys here to, ah, do a little renovation."<p>

Standing behind Fontaine were two men in coveralls. One hefted a large toolbox in his hand and the other pushed something solid and square-shaped and draped under a sheet on a small trolley.

"Renovation?" she echoed, frowning. "I don't… I mean, no, I'm not busy." She deftly stepped aside to let them all in.

"Nothin' drastic," Fontaine said with a smile that was probably supposed to be reassuring, but which came off as slightly mocking. "You won't even notice. Hoffman, bedroom's that way," he added, jerking his chin. "Make sure you put a sheet down."

Hoffman and his colleague ambled towards her bedroom without a word.

Camille stared after them, torn between the instinct to ask Fontaine just what the hell was going on, and the knowledge that it was best for her to bite her tongue and offer him a drink. He declined one but asked for an ashtray and threw himself down on the couch, crossing his ankle over his knee. She set the seashell dish in front of him on the low coffee table and stepped back, keeping her hands folded neatly in front of her.

Fontaine raked his eyes quickly, appraisingly, over the lounge room. The Andrews Sisters sang softly from the record player in the corner; there were a stack of magazines – mostly catalogues for the nicer salons in Fort Frolic – on the floor; on a side-table near the door stood a twisted sculpture, styled like a long, slim piece of coral.

The roar of machinery echoed in a sudden roar from her bedroom. Camille jumped. Fontaine, however, didn't seem fazed in the least; he pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it.

"So, uh…" Camille cleared her throat and hooked a thumb at her bedroom. "What are they doing in there?"

Fontaine waved her question away with a dismissive flap of his hand and she felt a sudden stab of fury that he just came into her home with a couple of workmen and didn't even think that she deserved to know why. "Just a job." He dragged heavily on his cigar, eyes narrowing at her from behind plumes of rising smoke. "I'm havin' a safe put in. You won't regret it. Keep all your important shit in there."

"A _safe_?" she echoed, frowning.

"You're gonna need one, Cam." He spoke around his cigar and shifted it from one side of his mouth to the other. "Secretary's gotta look after her boss's stuff. I don't want it lyin' around _here_ so keep it in the _safe_."

She nibbled on her bottom lip. "What sort of stuff?" she asked slowly. "I mean, surely you have safes in your office and that whole building is a lot more secure than _here_."

He blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. "There you go with that _worried_ shit." He chuckled and fluttered his fingers. "Papers, the books from the office, some cash. Just stuff that you'll need but that I don't want kept in your desk. _Or_ in my office."

"Oh." She heard the two workmen grumbling to themselves. "I'm not _worried_," she added, forcing annoyance into her voice. But she was incredibly worried. Her apartment was supposed to be separate from her work, a place where she could come home and unwind without thinking about Fontaine or plasmids; but now, this safe – and she didn't dare think what Fontaine would make her keep inside it.

She lit herself a cigarette and winced as a loud crash came from the bedroom and then the buzz of a drill. From the corner of her eye, she watched Fontaine. He continued to turn his eyes over her apartment, slowly, scratching at his chin with his thumbnail. "Are you sure you don't want a drink or something, Mr. Fontaine?" she asked, bending to the coffee table and tapping ash from the end of her cigarette.

"Nah, I'm fine," he replied. "I just wanna make sure this gets done." He pulled a large glittering fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. "I gotta show to catch in twenty minutes."

"At Fort Frolic?" She rested her cigarette in the ashtray. "That sounds great."

Fontaine made a face. "That Cohen guy is _nuts_."

"I think he's fantastic. I hear he was a _star_ on _Broadway_ before Andrew Ryan brought him down here."

He snorted derisively and rolled his cigar between his fingers. "It's him and his _disciples_ parading around on stage for two hours. It ain't Shakespeare, kid."

She folded her arms across her chest. "Then why do _you_ go?" she asked, a sneer just edging her words. She knew that the frustration of having Fontaine show up unannounced and this whole safe business was bubbling just beneath the surface; and though she knew to keep her attitude in check, she couldn't help it.

He shrugged. "I go because a lotta people go, people I like to keep an eye on, y'know? Plus there ain't anythin' else to do down here." He stood, put out his cigar, and slipped it away in his breast pocket. "If you're so keen maybe I'll get two tickets next time, and you can sit there and tell me what the _hell_ is goin' on," he suggested with a wink.

Camille couldn't help her slow smile.

"Hey, Mr. Fontaine, we're done." The two workmen stood in the doorway. Hoffman hooked his thumb at the bedroom. "'S ready to go."

"Great. Thanks." Fontaine shook the man's hand and then reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thick stack of banknotes. He began to count them out, quickly, as if the whole exercise were beneath him. Hoffman, and his colleague, watched the money hungrily. Neither of them looked at her.

Camille felt her nausea return as she watched the zoetrope of Andrew Ryan's face flash at her from between Fontaine's fingers. That was more than enough cash for a simple handyman's job. Fontaine was paying them off. She quickly turned away, feeling trapped. _Trapped_ in her own home. A sudden furious urge to tell Fontaine _and_ those men to leave rose and died in her chest. Instead, she looked out through the large window behind the couch. The ocean, dark and glassy, churned outside. The neon lights of Rapture – red and blue and yellow and green and violet – glittered brightly. It was a marvellous sight to behold. She reminded herself that she wouldn't be here without Frank Fontaine. She would still be looking across the dingy square of Artemis Suites.

A large milky squid propelled itself along with its long tentacles, rolling its large black eye at her. Flinching, she waited until its javelin-like form disappeared from view before she turned back to the men standing in her living room. The money was out of sight – safely tucked away inside those coveralls, no doubt – and Fontaine was already ushering them to the door. They left dusty footprints over the plush crimson rug Camille had only just put down earlier that day.

Fontaine turned to her with an expression that might have been apologetic, if he were capable of feeling apologetic. "Sorry 'bout the mess, kid. I'll see you tomorrow," he drawled.

"It's okay, Mr. Fontaine," she said, and she could hear how tight the words were. "Thanks." She walked him to the door. "Have a good time at the show."

He rolled his eyes and that brought a smile to her face.

She waited until he was gone and then locked the door. Her home was saturated by the smell of Fontaine's cigar smoke and the dusty scent of renovations. She went into the bedroom and examined the new safe. It wasn't large, maybe a foot high and a foot wide, set deep into the wall above a chest of drawers. She sighed and swung the heavy door back and forth. Now, she had a big dark hole in the wall. She needed to buy something to put over it.

As she cleaned up Hoffman's mess her eyes kept going back to the safe, hanging open like the maw of a large sea creature, threatening to swallow her up.


	4. IV

The Little Sisters Orphanage in Hestia was in a spacious, multistorey building, hemmed on either side by tiny apartments packed tightly together. A large neon sign cast a rainbow glow over the crowd of people milling below in the small square. Camille looked out through a window at the disorganized lines where citizens eagerly waited to drop off their children – mostly little girls, though boys were welcome too. The first Little Sisters Orphanage had been opened in the Plaza Hedone and already it was at capacity; Frank Fontaine had purchased all this space to build a second site and rumour had it that Andrew Ryan was going to stop by for an inspection and a chat with Fontaine. After all, Rapture was a city that had been built on ideals rejecting charity and altruism, though many people seemed to appreciate Fontaine 'giving back'.

Camille turned away from the window and kept close to Fontaine as they marched through the orphanage, passing through wide, well-lit hallways. She never walked at his side, but always at his heels. It didn't really bother her but it was a constant reminder that she was not, and would never be, his equal. She was simply there to be circumspect, a quality he seemed to like in her, and take notes.

The walls were decorated with bright posters. Little girls in pastel-colored smocks with round white collars ran past them, giggling and shouting. Fontaine grunted, almost in disapproval. He was yet to say anything to her during their tour of the orphanage and Camille just assumed he didn't like children. Or maybe he was anxious about Ryan turning up.

They took a sharp right, turning into a long room adorned with a dozen bunk beds lined up along the walls. At the end of the room a small crowd of girls danced around a young, thin woman in a grimy white coat. Fontaine spread his arms and whistled to grab her attention. She jumped, her large eyes darting about warily. Camille couldn't see Fontaine's face but she could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Hey Bridge, how ya doin'?"

The woman approached them slowly, at an angle. "Yes, good morning, Frank."

Now, Fontaine gestured for Camille to come to his side. "Bridge, this is my secretary, Cam. Cam, this is Brigid Tenenbaum. She's the one who first made the ADAM discovery." His tone was edged with something that might have been pride.

Camille smiled and extended her hand but Tenenbaum made no move to shake it; she merely stared at Camille's outstretched fingers as if they were the tentacles of an octopus and muttered, "Yes, hello."

"So, how we doin'?" Fontaine asked, placing a hand on Tenenbaum's shoulder. Camille noted how she didn't shrug the hand away.

"Yes. I have been assessing these new girls." Tenenbaum began to pace and Fontaine kept close to her, one hand balled on his hip. "Many of them are healthy – good weight, good height, no sicknesses – but some are small and thin and not good at all," she said, gesturing to the group of little girls. Some were on the floor, lying on their bellies or stretching their legs out, playing with dolls; others were blinking curiously at the three adults, pulling on the hems of their dresses awkwardly. "I will take the healthy ones today but, Frank, you must build up the other ones, yes? I need all the test subjects I can get. The more, the better."

Fontaine waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't worry, Bridge, I'll take care of it."

Both Tenenbaum and Fontaine continued to ignore her but Camille schooled her face into a mask of patience, her notepad and pen in hand, just in case they turned around. Despite her outward calm, her heart was thundering in her chest. All she could hear were Tenenbaum's words: _test subjects_. She had no idea what use Fontaine had for test subjects, let alone _little girls_; and she didn't dare think about what would happen to the them. Tenenbaum spoke about it as if she were simply discussing the weather, flatly, without emotion, without inflection.

"I'll have the girls sent over to Prometheus. They'll think it's a field trip or somethin'," Fontaine said, chuckling.

The Fontaine Futuristics Genetic Research Department was located in Point Prometheus, the center of knowledge and learning in Rapture. Camille had only been to the Rapture Memorial Museum when she had first come to the city but she was yet to visit the heart of Fontaine Futuristics, where the real work happened. Fontaine made a lot of trips to the labs and she had hoped – ever since that first board meeting – that she would start making trips too.

"Yes, good," Tenenbaum said, bobbing her head like a little bird.

Something about the young woman reminded Camille of a little bird: Tenenbaum was small and thin, with a sharp face made sharper by something not quite resembling experience although that was as close as Camille could approximate it. Tenenbaum jerked her head every time Fontaine, or one of the girls, moved suddenly, as though she had quite forgotten their presence. It was hard to gauge her age; maybe mid-twenties. She was strange, and what was stranger was the way Fontaine behaved around her. He treated her almost as an equal, deferring to her professional opinion, promising her supplies and resources. Tenenbaum, intentionally or otherwise, easily held her own against Fontaine. "I will let you know when the first stage of implantation has worked und then we must wait," she murmured, her eyes flicking to Fontaine's face and then quickly falling away to stare at the floor.

"I got all the patience in the world for this, Bridge," Fontaine replied smoothly, clapping her on the shoulder.

Tenenbaum said nothing in reply.

Fontaine and Camille left quickly after that, sensing that they were hindering the young scientist.

Outside, past the throng of patrons, Camille saw Andrew Ryan standing amongst his entourage: among them, there was a stocky man with a bushy rust-colored beard, and a man with a face like a wolf, and Diane McClintock desperately hanging onto Ryan's arm. Camille could feel Ryan's eyes on her. For one moment, she dared to alert Fontaine to Ryan's presence; her hand hung in the air near his shoulder. Then, Ryan simply shook his head and led the group away.

Camille made a few cursory notes and then they returned to Fontaine Futuristics where Fontaine poured himself a drink and sat heavily behind his desk. She made for the door, then paused, her lower lip between her teeth. "Mr. Fontaine?" she asked slowly, putting a high inflection in her voice, testing the water.

"Yeah?"

Now she tensed, as though bracing for a blow. "What's–what's Dr. Tenenbaum going to do with those girls?"

Fontaine laced his fingers behind his head and squinted at her. "I don't think she's a doctor, kid. She's kinda, ah, freelance. Not seriously qualified, ya know?"

"Oh."

"And you don't need to worry. I ain't that kinda guy, Cam. It's just a little booster for business."

She waited for him to elaborate, to reassure her a little further, but he didn't. He just drained his glass and asked for a refill. While she was at the wet bar, he spoke again, his voice cold and sharp: "What did I tell ya about that goody-two shoes crap, kid? It don't fly down here."

She turned back to him, her fingers clenched tightly around his glass. All she had done was ask a simple question. "I wasn't–"

"I ain't gonna have you question me like this," he interrupted. "Am I clear?" He took his drink and set it down hard on the desk; a lick of bourbon splashed across the back of his hand. "I'm serious, Cam, I'm not gonna have you sit on some kinda moral pedestal _and_ take your paychecks. It don't work like that and I _told_ you that at the very beginning. My work is my work and unless I tell you to make it your business, it _ain't_."

Camille felt her face grow hot. She wanted, desperately, to look away but she knew she couldn't.

"_Hmm?_"

"I understand, Mr. Fontaine. I'm sorry." She swallowed; her throat was tight. "I was just… curious. That's all."

"Good. Get me somethin' to wipe this shit up."

Camille worked quickly for the rest of the day, did her best to avoid Fontaine as much as possible, and managed to leave at a reasonable hour; she needed to swim at the Adonis. There were a few people doing laps and she took the lane at the end of the pool, away from the others. As she propelled herself along, she felt weak. She clung to the edge of the pool and, despite herself, let her thoughts drift to work.

Fontaine had scared her – genuinely frightened her – and she didn't ever want to be on the receiving end of his anger again. She closed her eyes and sighed, kicking her legs lightly beneath the water. It had been a stupid move to ask about his work like that. Whatever he did, it was his business, and she wasn't a part of it. But seeing how easily he conversed with Tenenbaum, and seeing how he treated her – like she was integral – had made her envious. Tenenbaum probably didn't even realize that having Frank Fontaine depend on her was powerful in and of itself. Camille, on the other hand, was only as valuable to Fontaine as the work she could do for him. And maybe that was the way he wanted it.

She ran her hand over the smooth swimming cap encasing her scalp and pushed off from the wall, charging steadily through the water. Her muscles were almost numb when pulled herself out of the pool, clinging tightly to the small ladder. She tore the swimming cap from her head and grabbed a thick towel from the neat stack near the change room. She wrapped it around her shoulders and looked at the bright blue water of the pool, glittering in the dim lighting like an enormous sheet of glass.

Hanging above the pool was a large four-faced clock; it was getting late.

She showered and changed and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the basin. She had only been with Fontaine for a few months but, already, she was beginning to look as if she had worked with him for years. There were dark shadows under her eyes from the late nights spent lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. She figured she was going through a stage of insomnia, and that it would pass. And she wasn't certain, but her skin was beginning to look grey.

As she dressed, she realized, too, that she had lost quite a bit of weight, although she wasn't complaining. She paused as she smoothed her skirt. Maybe she would go to one of the expensive salons in Fort Frolic and buy herself some new clothes. Then, when Fontaine saw her next, she wouldn't look like some rube.

Maybe that was the key to changing Fontaine's attitude: he wasn't going to ask her to step up and be his equal, so she had to take it upon herself. She decided that when she next went into the office, she wasn't going to behave like a little girl. She wanted him to respect her, just like he respected Tenenbaum.

* * *

><p>Fontaine came out of his office, shrugging into his jacket. "C'mon, kid, we're goin' to the labs," he said.<p>

Camille looked at him, wondering if she'd misheard.

"Come _on_," he drawled, drumming his fingers impatiently on her desk.

She nodded and took up her handbag, slipping her notepad and pen away. Fontaine helped her into her coat. Then, she locked up the desk, pocketed the keys, and set the turret on. As they walked to the bathysphere station, Camille was grateful Fontaine couldn't see her face: she wore an enormous grin. She checked it, though, as Fontaine's bodyguards came into view, conspicuous bulges showing in their jackets.

The four of them climbed into the submersible: Fontaine and Camille sat together on one side of the plush curved seat and Larry and Gene were crammed together on the other side. They were far too large for the tiny 'sphere and Camille had to look at her lap and stifle her laughter, imagining the bathysphere, unable to take off, simply sinking to the seafloor. Then, Fontaine jerked the lever and the door swung shut with a _clunk_. As they descended, seawater washed over the thick quartz porthole in white sheets.

They moved quickly, and silently, through the water. The city lights glittered faintly like a handful of silver coins at the bottom of a fountain. Just behind the spires of the seascrapers, a large, dark smudge moved. It might have been a whale, although Camille didn't know if they ever came so close to the city. She pointed it out to Fontaine and he leant forward, grinning. "Y'know, no matter how many times I ride in this thing, I always see somethin' I never thought I'd ever see," he said, in a surprising display of honesty.

The ride was short and the bathysphere docked, groaning and creaking and rocking gently from side to side. It was not her first time riding in a bathysphere, but it was still nauseating to Camille. The interior lighting dimmed momentarily and the door swung open with a hiss of the pneumatic seal. Camille stepped out first, accepting the docking attendant's hand with a small smile, and Fontaine followed with his two bodyguards in tow.

Camille waited until Fontaine moved ahead of her to follow but he came to her side, an appraising sort of look in his eyes. She pretended not to notice. She had gone to Fort Frolic and spent quite a bit on new clothes, new stockings, new shoes. She wore her coral and pearl brooch and a light scarf looped neatly around her throat.

"Did ya pick up somethin' to hang on the wall when you were out shoppin'?" Fontaine asked, arching an eyebrow suggestively.

"Yes, Mr. Fontaine, from Cohen's Collection," she replied quickly.

He looked her over again, nodded, and assumed his place at the head of his own little entourage.

There were a couple of tour groups coming out of the Rapture Memorial Museum, including a small school group from Ryan's Preparatory Academy. Camille watched the children and felt her heart sink slightly: she couldn't imagine being born in a city like Rapture, never knowing what sunlight or wind felt like, never knowing the families they had back on the surface; and the way things were going in the city, they would probably _never_ leave Rapture.

Fontaine walked away from the museum towards a more modern part of Point Prometheus. The walls were stark white, the signs bright. "Boys, wait out here," Fontaine said, turning to Larry and Gene. "We won't be long."

"Got it, boss." Camille wasn't sure which one of the men had spoken; they were both almost identical, with flat, fat heads and pinched, piggish features. Fontaine, it seemed, had managed to find a distinguishing characteristic and maybe she would pick up on it in the future.

_FONTAINE FUTURISTICS GENETIC RESEARCH DEPT._ she read as they passed through a set of automatic doors. A security booth stood beyond the doors, buzzing with cameras and automatic turrets; two guards inside leapt up at the sight of Fontaine. "Good morning, Mr. Fontaine," one of them said.

"Hey fellas," he replied flatly. "Get me another tag, will ya?" he added, hooking his thumb at Camille.

One of the guards handed Fontaine a plastic tag with his name and photograph, which he clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket. Camille received an almost identical tag, except hers said _VISITOR_ in bright red letters and had no photograph. She attached it to her blouse and couldn't help but wonder if maybe, one day, she'd have her own.

A guard toting a small rifle gestured for them to pass the security booth and move through another set of doors beyond the security booth. They now stood in a low, square room, between two sets of automatic doors and two vented walls. A single siren sounded, red lighting flashed, and the doors were locked with a click and a hiss. Camille couldn't help but jump; Fontaine put his hand between her shoulder blades and left it there for a moment. "They're big on decontamination here, kid. Don't worry," he murmured.

Hot air blew in from the walls in a violent stream, stirring their clothing and blowing Camille's hair out of its up-do. Fontaine squinted in discomfort; he was probably used to the routine but despised it all the same. The vents then drew air in with a deafening roar, shut off, and bright green lighting filled the room. The doors leading into the labs opened and Fontaine gestured for her to go in.

Like the exterior of the facility, everything inside was stark and white and plain – though it lacked an air of modernity. It was more like only the bare minimum had been deemed necessary for work. The only adornments on the walls were cameras and automated turrets. Their shoes clicked on the smooth tiled floor as they strode down the hallway, passing doors with different signs stencilled on the unpainted metal. A faint hum hung in the air, the hum of dozens and dozens of computers or maybe all the electricity being drawn from Hephaestus.

They passed by a long rounded glass wall; Camille paused and looked down into a wide room filled with computer terminals, tangles of thick wires, men and women in white coats moving with great purpose. She felt a tide of expectation and excitement rise inside her as she watched them work.

Then, Fontaine snapped his fingers at her as he rounded a corner, continuing on towards the end of the hall. She followed. He punched in a code into the keypad on the wall and a set of double doors opened with a soft hiss. It looked like a medical bay on the other side, very sterile and bright. There were several hospital beds lined up on the walls, some with the curtains drawn around so as to protect the privacy of the patient. One or two machines beeped very faintly. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic. Camille felt herself stiffen; hospital environments put her on edge.

As if on cue, Tenenbaum appeared. Her wrinkled lab coat seemed to suffocate her thin frame and she looked as if she hadn't slept in days. She approached Fontaine cautiously, like a nervous dog. He reached his hand out, as if beckoning her forward. "I hope you got good news for me, Bridge," he said.

"Yes well, come and see." Tenenbaum led them to a pair of hospital beds shrouded with a thick curtain. Two little girls lay on the beds, sleeping, or, as Camille suspected, sedated. They were dressed in oversized hospital gowns. Tenenbaum went to the bedside of one of the girls; her hand hovered over the girl's forehead, as if she couldn't quite bring herself to touch the child. "This one was implanted a few days ago. Already, the slug is growing large in her belly. Ultrasound scans show it has taken nicely to her."

Fontaine waved his hand impatiently. "And?"

Tenenbaum's lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile. "It works, Frank," she replied mysteriously. "But…"

"_But_? Y'know I don't like that word."

"Well, this one," Tenenbaum began slowly, gesturing to the other girl, "had slug implanted at the same time. The slug did not take. She became sick and eventually vomited up slug. It was completely disintegrated."

"What is that supposed to mean to me?"

Tenenbaum rolled one sharp shoulder in a light shrug. "Some girls do not take slug. I am working on the reasons. But, more important Frank, we need _more_ slugs. I have already implanted most of them in girls. There are not many left."

Camille watched Fontaine's expression grow stormy before he seemed to master himself. "More slugs, huh?" he sighed.

"Ja. Ah! I have to show you. Come," Tenenbaum said, leading Fontaine and Camille from the sleeping girls to a counter on the wall, where a large fish tank rested. Inside the tank, reclining on a thin bed of sand, was a glistening sea slug. It was dark in color, with bright red markings along its body, and a round red mouth. Camille bent at the waist and squinted at it. Its little mouth was open, revealing a set of small, sharp teeth. The slug shifted, pulsating, as if aware of her stare.

Fontaine said, "What the hell is this?"

Tenenbaum looked up at him, her large eyes shining. For a moment she held his questioning gaze and then she dropped her eyes to the fish tank and pointed. "The first yield, Frank. Look how fat with ADAM the slug is! And this slug I took out this morning. It was only with the host for a short time. I wanted to see how immediate the effects were so I removed the slug, perhaps prematurely–"

He cut her off with a clap on the shoulder. "Nice work, Bridge! Goddamn, look at that thing. Sure is fuckin' ugly though," he said, tapping on the tank with his finger. "And, uh, how is the host? Any side effects?"

Camille listened silently, twisting her hands together. Those little girls were being implanted with the sea slugs to produce ADAM. The thought made her ill. She had to move away and stare at the wall for a moment. The only consolation, she considered, was that Fontaine would look after the girls – after all, without them, he had no ADAM, no plasmids, no business.

"Permanently?" she heard Tenenbaum say, "I do not know yet. Temporarily, yes." Tenenbaum went back to the little girls and injected one with a small syringe. The girl stirred, groaning slightly, and opened her eyes. She smiled sleepily at the two figures standing over her bed and, despite herself, Camille came closer. And almost immediately, she wished she hadn't.

The girl's pupil-less eyes glowed a bright, acid yellow.

Fontaine recoiled with a curse. Tenenbaum merely stared, observing another interesting specimen. "Yes, temporary side-effects of implantation," she remarked quietly. "There are no adverse effects when slug is removed. Because slug is attached to girl, no ADAM actually enters her system, I think. It is not harmful to the girl, Frank, it is just… odd."

Fontaine struggled to find words. He rubbed a hand over his head. "I ain't worried if it's harmin' the kid, Bridge. I'm just… I mean, _Jesus_, you coulda warned me! That's _alien_!"

"Hmm, yes," she replied, chuckling softly through her nose.

The little girl blinked those luminous yellow eyes at them, smiling dreamily, until Tenenbaum put her to sleep again. Camille felt as though the image were burned onto her retinas.

The three of them left the medical bay and ambled down the hall, Fontaine slightly ahead of the two young women. Camille started to shiver and crossed her arms over her chest. Tenenbaum stared at her from the corner of her eye. Camille smiled reflexively but Tenenbaum did not repay the gesture.

"I want a fast turnover of the host-slug thing, 'kay Bridge? Get this thing to work, I don't want any more fuck ups," Fontaine said, slowing and turning on his heel.

"Yes Frank, of course. But. I need more slugs," she replied softly, shoving her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and hunching her shoulders defensively. "Once ADAM is harvested, slugs cannot be implanted again. You know this."

"Oh, yeah, more of those little suckers." He blew out his cheeks. "Ya can't breed 'em?"

"Is possibility..."

"I'll see what I can find down at Port Neptune for ya."

"You know," Camille said, flinching slightly as both Fontaine and Tenenbaum turned to look at her, "there are a lot of… _things_ that are stuck on the windows of the buildings. They crawl up from the seafloor and just cling to the glass. Ryan has a maintenance crew that goes around, what, once a month or something?" She cleared her throat and tried to sound nonchalant. Her voice trembled. "You could probably get a team of guys to go around and scrape the windows and stuff. I'm sure you'd find some slugs there. I mean, I know I get some of those creatures crawling over _my_ windows."

Fontaine wrinkled his cheek in a half-smile. "Yeah," he murmured, "sounds like a plan, Cam."

"Und pay attention to your submarines, Frank. The slugs may attach themselves there," Tenenbaum added, nodding.

"I'll do that."

Camille and Fontaine left Tenenbaum, who returned to the medical bay. "Next stop is the plasmid lab," Fontaine said. "Dr. Suchong, he's… Well, you'll see, kid."

She wanted to tell him she didn't think she could handle any more of the laboratories but instead she forced a smile and nodded.

The plasmid lab was on the other side of the department. Fontaine seemed to know where he was going and Camille followed close beside him. They passed through another decontamination chamber (she was not frightened by the sudden noises or the rush of hot air the second time around) and entered another sparsely-furnished facility. Signs led them to the plasmid labs and Fontaine knocked on a door marked _DEVELOPMENT_. "Ya gotta knock, this guy's big on _politeness_," he remarked quietly, "even though it's _my_ fuckin' lab."

A tall, slim Korean man answered the door, one hand tucked neatly into the pocket of his lab coat. He wore thin-framed glasses which flashed in the bright overhead lights as he bowed slightly and stepped back to let Fontaine and Camille in. "Hello, Mr. Fontaine," he said with a tightening of his lips. "Oh. And guest." His nose wrinkled. "Is she _clean_?"

"Yeah, Doc, she's been decontaminated, same as me. This is my secretary, Cam."

"Hello," Suchong replied, bowing slightly towards Camille.

"Hello, Dr. Suchong. It's a pleasure to meet you," she replied, inclining her head and smiling.

Suchong sniffed sharply and straightened up, twisting his lips in a grimace. His cheeks, already quite sallow, looked as thin as paper, and glistened with a sheen of sweat.

"We got caught up with Tenenbaum and the slugs," Fontaine said, checking the time on his fob watch.

Suchong scoffed. "Tch, Tenenbaum… Women should not be scientist! They are too _emotional_. Tenenbaum is too emotional with those girls. I see her, holding their hands and watching them sleep. It is not good for science _or_ for business interest," he said with a reproachful glance in Fontaine's direction.

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard all this before. Now, what ya got for me? You said it was urgent," Fontaine drawled.

"Ah yes, come through. Suchong is putting finishing touches on demonstration."

The trio passed through a set of double doors, identical to the ones leading into the medical bay. On the other side was a wall of glass and a small computer terminal. It looked like the observation room Camille had seen earlier except that, instead of scientists on the other side of the glass, there was only a single gurney and strapped to the gurney was a man wearing what looked like the bottom half of a prison uniform. His head was hanging at an odd angle, as if he were unconscious.

Camille looked at Fontaine, but he didn't seem surprised in the least. "One from Persephone," he said simply.

"Suchong got idea for new plasmid from man who came to medical clinic, presenting with horrible allergic reaction," Suchong said, speaking quickly and without inflection. He was so unlike Tenenbaum, cold and quick and highly efficient, like a knife.

"What're you gonna do? Shoot peanuts from your fingertips?" Fontaine asked dryly, eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

"Peanuts?" Suchong echoed, mirroring Fontaine's frown. "How absurd, Mr. Fontaine. No, not peanuts. _Bees_."

Nobody said anything.

"Let Suchong demonstrate. Test subject was injected with new plasmid only hours ago. Maturation from larval stage to adulthood much longer in nature but for some reason not so long in human…"

Fontaine's eyes glittered with anticipation, though he said, "I'm runnin' outta patience, Suchong."

Suchong muttered under his breath, something about ceremony being underappreciated, and began typing on the console. Two thin metal rods, each tipped by a silver ball, rose from the floor on either side of the test subject's head. A spark crackled briefly between the two balls and then a surge of bright blue electricity passed between them, through the unconscious man's head. His body jerked on the gurney, fighting against his bonds. As he was forced back to consciousness, he screamed.

Camille winced as the electricity flashed brightly, momentarily blinding her. She shifted slightly behind Fontaine, who simply stood and watched, impassive. The man on the gurney continued to thrash and howl and then his left arm stiffened, fingers clenched in an ugly rictus. She could see the mottled skin of his arm where thick pustules had formed and his veins stuck out from his skin, dark and bloated.

He roared in agony and gave one final twist of his body; it looked as if he were about to snap in half. From his fingertips spewed a hazy cloud which hung in the air. It took Camille a moment to realize that the cloud was _alive: _it was a group of bees, roiling lazily in the air. The roar of the swarm was overwhelming, an angry, high-pitched buzzing. She hunched her shoulders as she felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle.

Fontaine whistled softly. "Bees, huh?" He trailed his finger over his upper lip. "It's gonna be hard to market. I dunno how many people would want to shoot _bees_ from their hands."

Suchong turned to them, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a grin. "_Bees_. They are genetically-engineered warriors."

"What, uh, do they do?"

"Attack foes. They behave as in a swarm, protecting the hive."

"Hive?" Fontaine asked, cocking his head.

"Suchong will explain: plasmid is injected, eggs are laid in veins, they hatch, grow and develop, form home, and are finally ready for use as offensive weapon. All in a matter of hours – though Suchong is certain process can be artificially sped-up. Network of veins in arm acts as hive for insects while they remain at rest."

Fontaine paled, although Camille wasn't sure if it was just a trick of the light. "Is it… painful?" he asked slowly, eyes flicking to the man on the gurney.

"Suchong has _obviously _not tested plasmid on himself," he said with a roll of his eyes, "but I will get report from test subject." He pressed a button on the console and thin grey smoke poured into the room on the other side of the glass from air vents set high on the wall. The swarm of bees danced in the air, swaying back and forth, and eventually disappeared from view. The smoke cleared, revealing the room as it had been when Fontaine and Camille had first walked in. On the gurney, the test subject groaned and twisted weakly. His skin shone with sweat. "See?" Suchong said brightly. "Bees return to hive in arm."

"Uh-huh," Fontaine answered gruffly. "And what happens when you don't wanna use the plasmid anymore? If you wanna change it?"

"Lack of EVE to recharge plasmid will mean that its powers will disappear. Suchong has not done extensive testing yet but hypothesis is that the bees will simply die. Maybe fall out of hand? Maybe remain in arm, in some kind of hibernation, until next recharge? Suchong needs to do more testing before concrete conclusions can be reached."

Fontaine shoved his hands in his pockets. "Is that a hint that you want more money for this department, Doc?" he asked, a hint of amusement lacing his voice.

Suchong grinned again, a hideous tight grin which seemed more suited to a shark than a man. He tipped his head forward in a small bow and the light caught the round lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes. "Suchong would not dare to be so presumptuous, but more money would be gratefully accepted, Mr. Fontaine."


End file.
